


Why I Hate Beige

by sarkywoman



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-04
Updated: 2007-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some John angst I wrote in 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I Hate Beige

It was the twentieth of August, nineteen-ninety-six, when John's father first hit him. The day before his birthday. Drunk, again, the man had stumbled into the front room and sunk onto the tattered sofa to watch TV. John had been mucking about with a multi-coloured bouncy ball, seeing how many times he could make it hit the ceiling in one throw. In retrospect it was clearly a dumb thing to do, but it wasn't like there was much in the room to break. His family - him and his dad, since April the seventh - didn't have nice things. 

The ball had managed three bounces off the ceiling if he threw it hard enough, they had a pretty low ceiling and it had a slight dent in it now from the ball. He wanted to reach four. Problem was, in trying to put enough force behind the throw, his arm was at the wrong angle and the ball bounced wildly around the wall. His dad only grunted when it bounced past his head, but when it went behind the TV set and knocked out the cable, that was a different matter entirely.

John's father was a big man physically, if not morally, and he could look quite imposing when he stood to his almost full height. His width helped with that. A fat man had never been less jolly. He was still wearing his heavy boots and John remembered hearing three steps on the thin, beige carpet. It hadn't scared him, his dad wasn't a violent man.

He'd been tugged up by the back of his collar so roughly that he'd almost choked on nothing. Then his back had hit the floor. He still wasn't sure what was happening. Dad was moving him out the way obviously, hadn't meant to hurt him. John pushed himself up to a sitting position.

The fist caught him in the jaw and sent him back to the carpet. His first thought was 'what?' and his second was 'ouch'. His third and fourth thoughts were rinsed repeats of the first two, as he was booted in the stomach with the heavy boots. Now he was crying.

There was vague yelling above him from the strange man impersonating his dad, something about noise and ingratitude. John was pulled up to his feet by rough hands. Dad had strong hands from working hard for a living, unlike the bums who lived next door and let their kids run riot. Then dad was in his face, shouting more, but John couldn't hear the words because he was being smothered by the whiskey mist that was his dad's breath. Something about selfishness and not understanding.

He didn't know why he'd been pulled to his feet since his dad was just going to knock him down again. His head hit the floor really hard, if the loud thump was anything to go by. The throbbing pain that resulted only just about stood out from the rest. Dad was at the TV now, plugging the cables back in. There was muttering instead of yelling, something about his mother.

John didn't understand back then. Didn't want to. His dad was a good man and John was quite clearly upsetting him. So he went upstairs to the bathroom and took a quick shower to get the blood out of his hair and the tears off his cheeks. He had some very colourful bruises forming on his pale skin. Then he went to his room, emptied his backpack of his school things (he kept a book in there in case he got bored), and started to pack. He took two changes of clothes and his toothbrush and toothpaste.

He lay awake on his bed memorising his small room. It might be a while before he saw it again. It was another couple of hours maybe before his dad's heavy boots thudded up the stairs. For a terrifying moment, John thought the man would come in his room - the boots paused outside - and the whole ordeal would begin again, but the boots continued their trek a few metres to his dad's room and shut the door. John wished he'd gone to dad's room before packing, he could have borrowed something of mum's to cheer himself up. Her stuff was still in there, though most of it was in boxes, tidied away. One day they'd take it to a charity shop, but they didn't want to give any of it away yet.

John got up and put on his jacket. His head had left blood on the pillow, but it didn't seem to be bleeding still. He got his bag and went downstairs to the kitchen and quietly as he could, made himself a sandwich, put it in the bag. It might be a while before he could find somewhere else to live and he'd need a snack.

He tidied up the living room. Dad had knocked some of the cushions off the sofa, so John put them back. He took the glasses and plates into the kitchen and washed them. He left the blood on the beige carpet, in case dad forgot he'd been there.

Then he quietly unlocked the front door and stepped out into the night. 

 

It was Friday the thirteenth of March, when Bobby snapped and struck him. John had been testing it of course, pushing the limits like he had everywhere else so far in life. Only had himself to blame again. Bobby wasn't a violent guy. It must have been John that made it happen.

"John? John, let me in. Come on John, unlock the door please. I didn't mean to hurt you." 

John wondered what would happen if he opened the bathroom door. Bobby would probably hug him and kiss him and swear it wouldn't happen again. And then it would happen again. Like when he'd gone home to his father. He was like a broken jigsaw piece, wouldn't fit, and trying to force him in only broke the other pieces.

"Please, Johnny?"

John sighed and flicked his lighter open. He could always set Bobby on fire. That would make him feel like the bigger man. What sort of baby shut himself in the bathroom because his boyfriend hit him? Wasn't even a real punch, Bobby was too much of a girl for it. 

"At least talk to me!"

John rose to his feet and walked slowly over to the mirror, poking roughly at the blood clotting on his lip. Stupid bleeding lip.

"John..."  
"I'm okay, Bobby. Stop freaking out." 

But his voice was too low, too cold and too quiet to prove it. There was nothing he could do about that, he didn't care enough to be convincing.

"John, I just..." There was a noise of fabric sliding down the door. Bobby had clearly sat down to wait. "You shouldn't say stuff like that. Why would you say stuff like that?"

"To make you mad." 

Not exactly the truth, but what could he say?

"Well it worked." 

There was another pause. John dampened some tissue under the cold tap and wiped his mouth clean. Then when he licked his lip it split again, ruining all his good work. He watched the blood run down his chin in a neat line and waited for it to drip off his chin in a solitary act of self-destruction. 

Naturally, today was the first day in two months he'd decided to wear light trainers. White and beige. They matched Bobby's beige trousers. They matched his own jacket, the one he'd worn to the museum trip earlier. Bobby liked his jacket but he hated it. Maybe he'd leave it here. He was bound to leave sometime. Just had to wait for Bobby to go to sleep, then he'd be gone. He wasn't a sucker, he wouldn't stick around while Bobby played with Rogue and hit him. He actually fucking hit him!

"John, I'm really sorry."

"It's alright, Bobby."

Wasn't like it was a frightening novelty or anything. He'd had five years of this shit from one fucker or another. But he'd never stuck around for it to happen more than once. St John Allerdyce was no fool. When you get burnt, take your hands out of the fire.

The irony of him adopting that motto wasn't unappreciated.

"John?"

"Yes?" He'd said 'yes', not 'yeah'. Dead giveaway of mental preoccupation and the effort that each word needed.

"You, uh, coming out of the bathroom anytime soon?"

"What, you need the toilet?"

"No, just..."

"So what's the problem?"

"Is your lip still bleeding?"

It had stopped now. John was almost disappointed. He dragged his thumb up the sticky crimson line and then rubbed it on the mirror in a 'J' for John. Then he changed his mind and tugged at his lip until he had enough to make it a curly 'P' for Pyro. It stung like hell, but John knew that wasn't why he was crying. 

"John?"

"Bobby! Will you shut the fuck up and leave me alone!" John screamed at the impassive door.

When he'd heard their bedroom door closed and he was sure that his face didn't look bloody or tear-stained, John left the bathroom. He took his bag from under the bed and started packing. 

Turned out to be pretty pointless, as it happened. Magneto had offered a hand and a chance to be the bully instead of the bullied. He was a God among insects and people didn't hit Gods.

 

They were in the beige office, twentieth of August, two-thousand-and-four, when Magneto hit him...


End file.
